mental snapshot of a girl late to class


    Yours is a million-strand river,


    a yellow tributary, kinks


    of broken gold eating the sunlight.


    Maybe the wind will keep


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    those bleached shoe strings


    out of laser-point blue eyes.


    Your head jerks back like a horse,


    paddocked, looking through me


    into the puddles of concrete.


    My locks do not rival rapids


    or waterfalls. Nor do they fall


    horizontally like your near-white


    flag of surrender,


    shoes beating the concrete


    as discreetly as possible.